


Nothing New

by 5BlackRoses



Category: Scorpion (TV 2014)
Genre: Blood, Cutting, Dark, Depression, F/M, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied emotional/psychological abuse, Maybe - Freeform, Out of Character, Self-Harm, Snooping, Suicidal Thoughts, Therapy, Walter O'Brien Needs a Hug, Walter O'Brien-centric, Whump, idk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2018-10-20 21:17:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10670952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/5BlackRoses/pseuds/5BlackRoses
Summary: Honestly, it was nothing new. After all this time, he probably should have been expecting it.OrI really didn't like the ending of 3.22 and I thought that everyone was downright cruel to Walter, so I decided to take it a few steps further and go dark.





	1. Be Careful What You Wish For

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Scorpion fanfic, so I really need feedback!
> 
> Also, sorry if Walter seems a bit OoC or it feels like I'm not being fair to the other characters, the whole point here is that no one ever seems to sympathize with Walter in fics which kinda bothers me (I am of the opinion that Paige is at fault here, in a big way)

“ _Go to hell!”_

That's what Paige had said. Or yelled rather. Still, Walter didn't understand what he had done wrong. Paige had done her job at Scorpion and her presence was causing more harm than good, albeit mostly harm to him and good to everyone else. She taught him to feel and then used his new found ability to screw him over.

“Already there,” Walter muttered to himself, sinking onto the couch.

The part inside of him that yearned for understanding would not stay quiet. He tried to crush it, to stop asking questions, but he still wanted to understand what he'd done wrong. Walter had realized his feelings, like Paige wanted him to, expressed his feelings, like she wanted him to, and he was trying to deal with the consequences of being lied to about reciprocation. He'd gotten her a new, better-paying job; he'd made sure that she and Ralph were provided for. What else did she want from him?

Walter didn't move from the couch for nearly two hours, but when he did, he'd finally figured it out. Paige wanted him turn his proverbial cheek. What everyone wanted from him was to shut up and deal.

 

He didn't recognize the face in the mirror but before he could study it more closely, the class spidered, blood running down the cracks. He stared down at his fist, slowly unfurling his fingers and watching the flood fall to the floor.

Before logic could get in the way, Walter grabbed one of the mirror shards, slashing his open palm. Once he started, he couldn't seem to stop.

 

_“What did you do?”_

Happy's words echoed in Walter's head as he drew the mirror shard down his forearm. He'd accepted the fact that it was his fault, whatever “it” was, but he did not comprehend how and why it was a fact.

It was always his fault and always had been. Happy was just repeating the same question that Walter had been asked his entire life. He was always messing things up it seemed, but he could never figure out how to stop. Actually, Paige was supposed to help him stop... but he'd messed that up too apparently.

The simple four-word question cut as deep if not deeper than finding out about what had happened in space. Happy was supposed to be his friend, his fellow genius, one of the three people in the world who would understand. She was supposed to be different.

For some reason, everything made more sense with blood spilling from his wrist, joining the stream from his hand on its journey to the floorboards.

 

_“You are the one brain I can't crack, 197... I don't think I want to... I don't always like what goes on in there.”_

Before that moment, Toby calling him “197” had never mattered much. It was a fact and nothing else. Now though, Walter felt like protesting, he wanted to prove the he was more than just three simple numbers, more than just his IQ. He thought that his friend knew him better than that, but apparently he was wrong.

Walter almost laughed, remembering what Toby said. “I don't like it either,” he started down the other arm.

 

* * *

 

_You have reached Dr. Janice Keller. If this is a life-threatening emergency, please hang up and dial 911 or your local emergency access code. Otherwise, leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible._

“Ooops,” said the voice in the recording, “...probably should've taken option A...”

Janice almost stopped the message there, but for some reason she continued listening. The number wasn't in her contacts, but the voice seemed familiar. “I screwed up 'gain, Janice... 'nd there's blood everywhere... so unsanitary... it's all wrong... just don't wanna... they left... sooo tired...”

The voicemail went on, become less intelligible with every few words. Suddenly, Janice recognized the voice. It was Walter O'Brien, a man she hadn't spoken to in several years. Still, as a doctor, she knew something was wrong with him and felt obligated to check it out.

Suffice it to say that she wasn't expecting to find the genius with tear-stained cheeks, clutching a broken mirror shard, passed out in a pool of his own blood.

 


	2. To Hear Without Listening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for some realizations!

The first thing Walter noticed when he woke up was the too-bright sunshine coming through the open window. Next he noticed the IV lines and monitoring equipment to which he was attached. Then he noticed that he couldn't hear the monitors beeping, or anything for that matter. Finally, he panicked.

Walter tore our the IV, not caring about how he ripped the skin of his hand in the process. The monitoring equipment was next to go and he jumped out of bed, not quite sure of what to do. He turned up the volume on the monitor, checking the speakers and mute switch carefully, only to find that he heard nothing as the screen displayed asystole. Frantically grabbing the pulse oximeter* and putting it back on his finger, Walter watched the display change, but still failed to hear any beeping.

Next, he tried punching a wooden side table, which sent pain shooting up his arm but didn't yield any sound. He was about to try throwing something when medical personnel entered the room. Not having heard them coming, he was surprised when he felt a hand on his arm and struck without looking at the “attacker.” The last thing he felt was a needle jabbed into his right bicep.

 

* * *

 

The next time Walter woke up, it was midday, his arms were restrained, and he still couldn't hear anything. Blinking a few times, he reached out to press the call button that had been placed in his hand, presumably after he was restrained. As he waited, Walter contemplated the source of his sudden hearing loss. Someone, hopefully with an IQ higher than 150, would be the one to explain the situation; he was in no mood to interact with total idiots.

By the time someone arrived, Walter had freed himself from the restraints. It wasn't that it took a particularly long time, escape was just the easy. He was watching the door when a doctor entered, but she turned to sanitize her hands immediately, so he was unable to make out whatever it was she said.

Seeing his vaguely puzzled expression, the woman repeated herself. “I'm Dr. Gilligan,” she a extended a hand, “how are you feeling, Mr. O'Brien?”

Walter didn't bother hiding his grimace as he shook her hand. “That is a very general question, Dr. Gilligan,” he replied, “it would be more logical for you to check my chart and then ask about what you really want to know.”

To his surprise, the woman didn't comment on his social skills, or lack thereof, and proceeded to read over his chart on the clipboard at the end of the bed. _She's not a complete idiot_ , Walter decided.

His decision was somewhat tested when Dr. Gilligan asked him another question while looking down at the clipboard, a position in which he was unable to see her lips very well.

“Beyond the injuries listed here, what symptoms are you currently experiencing?”

Walter raised his eyebrows, reaching for the chart. The doctor handed it to him without complaint, waiting for him to read it with an indiscernible expression. Instead of answering her question, he handed back the clipboard and asked his own. “Why am I in the Psychology wing?”

“You are a logical man, Mr. O'Brien,” Dr. Gilligan remained professional, though she might have been edging on sarcasm, “logically, why would someone with your injuries be placed in the Psych wing after being stitched up?”

He didn't respond and so she continued. “What are your current symptoms?”

“I can't hear anything,” Walter replied, “for that reason, I should be transferred to another department, like Neurology or ENT.”

“May I?” she asked, taking something off the wall and gesturing with it to his ears, this time making sure to face him as she spoke.

Walter nodded reluctantly and allowed Dr. Gilligan to examine inside his ears. It didn't take her very long to finish and she moved to make a note on his chart without saying anything. “So,” he asked expectantly, “what's wrong with my ears?”

“I'll order some tests,” she replied, sanitizing her hands again before exiting.

Several hours and a whole battery of tests later, and they were still no closer to an explanation for the hearing loss. Having been returned to his room, Walter was bored beyond all belief. Deciding to test himself, he began writing out a proof of Heron's Formula on the back of his chart with a pen he'd swiped from the nurses station. He didn't hear or notice an unfamiliar doctor's entrance.

Once the man had gotten his attention, he introduced himself as Dr. Winkowski and communicated that he would be conducting a psychological evaluation. The doctor was completely unfazed by Walter's denouncement of Psychology as a whole, leading the genius give him a fair chance.

 

* * *

 

Happy, Toby, and Sylvester were all at the garage when Paige arrived. After dropping a very unhappy Ralph off at school, she'd decided to come back and talk to Walter. Even if she was done with Scorpion and its genius leader, her son wasn't.

“Walter?” she called out, trying to restrain her anger.

When she received no answer, Paige turned to the nearest desk. “Where is he? She asked.

“Good morning to you too, Ms. Dineen. How are you doing today?” Toby was in a significantly better mood than Paige.

“Hi Toby,” she replied curtly, “where is Walter hiding?”

The behaviorist shrugged. “Haven't seen him.”

Paige sighed an made her way over to Sylvester's desk. “Do you know where Walter is?” she asked, more gently.

He shook his head, fidgeting nervously. “Any car he had access to is accounted for and his cellphone is completely untraceable. Elia doesn't know where he is and Cabe isn't picking up either.”

“Well. You were certainly thorough. Don't you think that calling Elia is overkill?”

Sylvester continue to fidget. “I had to check,” he replied, “you know, because of what happened last time.”

Suddenly Paige felt a surge of worry overtake her anger. Remembering Walter about to fall off a cliff, literally, dampened her anger but did not erase it. Maintaining her a calm exterior, she turned on her heel. “Whatever,” she muttered.

“Bailing again?” Happy flipped up her welding mask.

“Walter fired me,” Paige shot back, “my services are no longer required at Scorpion. That man is beyond help.”

“No,” the mechanic removed her gloves, apron, and mask, “you don't get to say that kind of stuff. You forget that the rest of us have been here for the last few years; it's not all about you and Walt!”

Paige tried to protest, but Happy continued forcefully. “You've messed with him, but you've also messed with me... and with Sly. The whole point of your job here is to help us relate to the world and to understand normal people. Well, you know what I understand now? That normals like you are really fucking manipulative and selfish!”

“Look Happy,” Paige began, only to be interrupted by Happy again. “I thought you were different, better. But you proved me wrong. You used us, just like basically every normal in our lives. I know people like you. For my entire adult life, people like you have been using me and then throwing me away when I served my purpose to them. I don't know about Sly and Toby, but Walter would know what I mean!”

Without another word, Happy stormed out, Toby following her with a vaguely sympathetic shrug thrown in Paige's direction. The former cheerleader turned to Sylvester. “You got anything to say?” she asked.

He was silent for a long moment before replying. “I like you, Paige, but this is my family. I may not agree with his decisions, but I'll always be on Walter's side.”

Feeling utterly exhausted, Paige left the garage and drove home. Ralph would be at school for another few hours, and she needed to relax.

Eventually, Happy and Toby returned to the garage. “Sly, sorry for leaving you, buddy,” Toby said guiltily.

“I had a thought,” Sylvester began slowly.

“Really?” Toby just couldn't help himself.

Happy smacked her fiance and turned to Sylvester. “what were you thinking?”

“I think that maybe Walter only kept Paige around because of Ralph.... I mean, I'm just thinking about some of the things she's said over the past few years... Like when one of us reacts to something and she says that we reacted wrong. ”

Toby recovered from his stunned silence faster than Happy. “Grammar aside, I think you might be on to something.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *an oximeter is the little thing that they put on your finger in hospitals to measure pulse and blood o2 and stuff
> 
> Let me know what you think, I can always go back and edit.
> 
> Also, I know I'm being hard on Paige, but I really relate to Walter and his difficulty with social situations and people, and I think she has done some seriously messed up shit to his mind.


	3. Avoiding The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Through the end of 3x23 and then diverges from canon

28 hours later, Happy, Cabe, and Sylvester sat in a hospital waiting room, Toby having gone to get more information. They'd called all the hospitals and eventually convinced someone over the phone to tell them where Walter was, but once they got there in person, the hospital personnel wouldn't tell them anything.

Happy was reading the latest issue of IEEE Spectrum and Sly had one of his Super Fun Guy comics, but Cabe sat, unoccupied, waiting for news. No matter how disappointed he was with Walter's behavior, he would never stop caring about his son.

At the desk, Toby was beginning to get frustrated. He needed to get back to exercising, losing weight to fit into the tux for the wedding, but at much as he would have liked to ditch, making sure Walter was still alive was an obligation. Dead “dudes of honor” tended to hold wedding plans.

“I'm very sorry, Sir. It says here that the patient is refusing all visitors, and his right to do so is protected by hospital policy. The only exceptions are the patient's emergency contact and health care proxy or surrogate. Since you are neither of these individuals, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. If you refuse to do so, I will call security.”

Toby slammed his fist down on the counter in frustration, earning many wary glances from the other people in the waiting room. He was set to continue arguing, the man behind the desk had already moved on and was speaking with someone else.

Returning to the set of chairs inhabited by Happy, Sylvester, and Cabe, Toby sighed. “They won't let us in,” he told them, “he's refusing all visitors, the stubborn bastard.”

“Not good,” Happy stated, flipping to the next page in her magazine.

“We should call Paige,” Sylvester suggested, fidgeting, “she'll know what to do.”

“She's not picking up,” Toby sat down next to his fiance, “and after what 197 did to her, that's not really a surprise.”

“What about an emergency contact or health care proxy?” Cabe asked, “he's gotta have someone listed for making decisions given that his parents are in Ireland.”

Toby shrugged.

“I think I'm his next of kin,” Sylvester offered, “but that doesn't count in medical situations.”

Cabe stood. “I'll go talk to them.”

The DHS agent returned two minutes later. “He's listed as my health care proxy from that incident with the ice, so they're letting me see him,” Cabe announced, grabbing his coat and turning to follow a nurse.

“Not fair,” Toby muttered, low enough that nobody heard him.

 

* * *

 

Walter was watching the door when Cabe entered, but turned his head away when the older man tried to initiate eye contact. The agent sat in the chair beside the bed. “What happened, son?” he asked.

“Accident,” Walter grit his teeth, “not a big deal.”

“It sure looks like a big deal,” Cabe reached for one of Walter's bandaged arms only to have the genius pull away violently, “what do the docs say?”

“It's all healing up nicely. There won't be many scars. They're still making me talk to a psychologist which is entirely unnecessary...”

“Walter,” Cabe inturrupted.

“They're letting me go tomorrow morning. I'll be back to work immediately.”

“Son,” Cabe said gently, restraining himself from reaching out again, “that's not the issue here and I think you know that.”

“Please leave.”

The agent sighed, but he got up from the chair and made his way towards the door. “Have them call me if anything happens,” he requested.

Though Cabe couldn't have known, Walter didn't hear him. It's not like the genius would have called anyway.

 

* * *

 

“Let's go, gang,” Cabe addressed them as he reentered the waiting room, looking about a decade older than when he'd left.

“Well,” Toby asked, “what happened?”

They all looked at the agent expectantly, but he simply sighed, pulling out his car keys. “It's a long story,” he told them.

“You can't just leave it like that,” Sylvester protested, following Cabe as he headed for the parking lot, “is he going to be okay?”

“I don't think so,” Cabe replied, “at least not for a while.”

They continued to pester him for the entire drive.

“What do you mean he's not okay?”

“Did Paige finally snap and stab him?”

“At least give us a hint! Did he get in a car accident? Poisoned? Skydiving mishap? Infections disease?”

“How worried should we be?

“Is this more like the time he bumped his head or the time he drove of a cliff?”

Cabe remained silent.

 

* * *

 

It only took Happy twenty minutes to hack into the hospital's database and find Walter's location. She'd only waited so long to do so because Sylvester was too moral, Cabe was too rule-bound, and Toby was... well, he was Toby. That and everyone was angry with Walter for what had happened with Paige. Still, Happy cared about Walter no matter how many stupid decisions he made; illogical but true.

Apparently, the hospital was smart enough to keep actual information about diagnosis and treatment on a separate offline network, but she did manage to get a room number. Looking at a map, Happy almost couldn't contain her anger at finding Walter's room in the Psychiatric ward. She glanced over at Toby and whispered “sorry” before climbing out of bed. There was no way she was going to leave Walter trapped in the loony bin.

Dropping silently out of the vent and into the room, Happy moved to the edge of the bed. Walter was asleep, it was 2:07 AM, but when she reached out to wake him, an unexpected sight caught her eye and stayed her hand. Thick, white bandages covered Walter's wrists from palm to elbow.

Anything Happy had planned to say flew from her mind. Slowly, she backed away from the bed and pulled herself back up into the vent. Toby found her several hours later, scrubbing furiously at the dried blood on the garage floor. She told him it was an experiment gone wrong.

Eventually, Happy decided that Walter would tell her, them, when he was ready. Until such a time, she would pretend like nothing had happened.

 

* * *

 

 

Dr. Winkowski pushed the button that would make the lights flicker to announce his arrival. He knew that his patient was determined to leave as soon as possible, but he was going to do whatever he could to change that.

“Mr. O'Brien. How are you feeling today?”

“Fine. I'm ready to leave,” was the curt response.

“So you have been made aware that the tests revealed absolutely no physical cause for the hearing loss... This is what we call a conversion disorder.”

“Yes, I am familiar with the term,” Walter let his impatience influence his tone, “it is an absolutely ridiculous diagnosis. There has been no catalytic event in my life that would cause hearing loss at this time.”

“I'm pretty sure you are lying to me,” Dr. Winkowski replied, “you are probably lying to yourself as well.”

Walter didn't reply.

“I don't suppose I could convince you to stay for a while longer?”

“This is absurd. I'm leaving!” Walter labeled his tone as annoyed though Dr. Winkowski labeled it as defensive.

“Very well, I can't stop you from leaving,” the doctor sighed, “but I urge you to consider just how serious this situation is.”

Predictably, the genius did not respond and Dr. Winkowski rose, handing Walter a business card. “If you are ever considering hurting or killing yourself again, please call me, no matter what time it is.”

 

* * *

 

It was surprisingly easy to go back to work and pretend nothing had happened. Walter simply wore long sleeves all the time and Cabe didn't mention anything, so it all worked out. The genius' lip reading skills came in handy since none of the others knew about the condition, but no one talked about it.

The weeks passed, Paige returned, the wedding happened, albeit not in the planned manner, and the cuts on Walter's wrists healed, leaving behind only a few scars. The hearing loss remained, but the genius managed to function fairly normally. He reconciled with Ralph and Paige reciprocated his feelings for her and she didn't notice the scars when he took off his shirt in the storage closet. They got onto the plane and everyone was happy.

Paige was smiling like everything was okay again. Walter smiled back, wishing that it was okay but knowing it wasn't.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


	4. Left To Your Own Devices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An oblivious shrink and a trip to the beach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is another chapter, focusing mainly on Walter with a little bit of Happy.
> 
> Warning: it gets a little graphic at the end and tags have been updated to reflect that.

Walter enjoyed waking up next to Paige almost every day. Breakfast with her and Ralph was good too. However those were the only positive experiences he had all day. His various research projects no longer interested him, and cases just weren't as engaging as they used to be. Not entirely sure what to do about it, Walter settled for ignoring the changes.

That morning, the genius woke up predictably naked, he and Paige had stayed up very late, and he had to fight the urge to just stay in bed. He was the only one awake, but that didn't do anything to prevent him from getting the feeling that he always got when in a crowd. Dressing quickly, he left a note on the kitchen table saying that he had gone to the garage.

Instead of going directly there, Walter drove around aimlessly for a while. He went on average 18 miles over the speed limit at any given point, but the roads were basically empty that early in the morning so he figured it was okay.

When he did finally arrive at the garage, Walter didn't know what to do. First he made coffee, then he cleaned out the fridge, then he relabeled all the dangerous chemicals so that they were more clearly identifiable. By the time he finished organizing the kitchen utensils by amount of use over a 3 month period, it was only 6:45 AM.

Walter went up to the loft area and sat, staring out the window, the knife he'd liberated from thew kitchen burning a figurative hole in his pocket.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Walt,” Toby wandered up the stairs, “whatcha doing?”

When he didn't receive a reply, the behaviorist raised his voice. “197, are you up there?”

He reached the top of the stairs to find Walter staring out the window, fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt. Having never seen his friend be so silent and unoccupied while also ignoring someone, Toby moved closer before he said anything else. Crossing the room and was standing a few feet away, the psychologist briefly considered pranking his friend before nixing the idea. “Look, buddy, I know we've had our differences recently, but I haven't done anything that warrants the silent treatment. At least nothing that I can remember...”

Walter still didn't reply, Toby laid a hand on his shoulder. “We haven't had a case in a while, but that's no reason to go down the rabbit hole on your own...”

He was relieved when his friend finally responded, though it wasn't exactly the response he was hoping for. “I didn't see you there!” Walter exclaimed, turning around.

“Yeah, I got that, genius, I called your name like a million times.”

“I highly doubt the you actually did that a million times, probably more like...”

“That's not the point,” Toby interrupted, attempting to sound concerned rather than annoyed, “what's up with you today?”

“Nothing,” Walter replied.

“It's never nothing with you, Walt. There's always something going on in that head of yours.”

Before either man could say anything else, Toby heard the garage door slam and Cabe call for them to come down.

 

* * *

 

Walter couldn't hear what was happening downstairs, but he was able to gather from Toby's reaction that they had a new case. Slowly, he followed the behaviorist down, tugging his sleeves further down his wrists just in case. The cuts were mostly healed, but he had yet to come up with a convincing cover story for the scars.

Though he missed most of what Cabe said, Walter did manage to gather that the case had something to do with military equipment. “Can you give us any more detail?” he asked, trying to sound like he knew what was going on.

“That's classified, son. They only need Happy, Paige, and the doc on this one,” the agent replied.

Briefly, Walter considered arguing, but decided against it. Nodding, he turned to climb the stairs, hoping that no one was trying to talk to him. The voice-to-text app on his phone said otherwise, but he chose to ignore it.

Feeling the vibrations of someone, Paige most likely given the lightness of the footsteps, coming after him, Walter moved faster. Ralph's carpool had already come and gone, severely limiting the number of topics she might want to discuss. He had no coherent explanation for his leaving so early that morning. Suddenly the footsteps ceased and then descended the staircase quickly. The genius imagined that Cabe had said something like, “we're on a clock.”

Walter returned to his seat by the window and stared out at the grayish clouds. He couldn't help breathing a sigh of relief when he felt the garage door shut. Sylvester was going to be out with his gaming friends, the ones that dressed up in stupid costumes, and Walter would have the garage to himself for at least a few hours. He wasn't sure whether that was a good thing.

 

* * *

 

Happy couldn't stop thinking about the pool of blood she'd found after “visiting” Walter in the hospital. Though she had spent enough time and energy cleaning the garage floor that she knew the bloodstains weren't visible, she still saw a tinge of reddish-brown whenever she looked at the spot.

Sex with Toby distracted her, cases sometimes distracted her, conversations with Ada distracted her, but her mind would always return to the white bandages on Walter's wrists and the pool of blood on the floor.

That morning Walter seemed a little off, but the mechanic didn't no how to approach the situation. Lately he never seemed quite himself, and though she didn't want to admit it, Happy was worried that he might do something stupid again.

The job that Cabe got them was a welcome distraction, but she wasn't exactly thrilled that only part of the team was allowed to participate. A year earlier, Happy would have no doubt that Walter would get involved regardless of the rules and regulations, but now she wasn't so sure. She knew if they called for help, he would come, but she was beginning to miss how he used to get involved whether you liked it or not.

Cabe got to the driver's seat before Happy, leaving her stuck in the back with Paige and Toby, both of whom wanted to talk. She did her best to tune them out.

The case itself seemed simple enough, a possibly sabotaged engine having lead to an internal investigation in which everyone was a suspect, including the “higher-ups” and only outside contractors could be trusted to tell the truth.

Happy's responsibility was to examine the engine and related equipment to determine whether it was sabotaged and if so, how. Toby was in charge of profiling and interviewing suspects, Cabe was quarterbacking, and Paige was there to make sure that they didn't piss of the military personnel too much. On an intellectual level, the mechanic understood the need to keep the circle tight given the situation, but it still didn't feel right to have only part of the team involved.

The bit of blood she found smeared across the torn engine casing made the case more simple, but it still reminded Happy of the pool on the garage floor, distracting her from her work. Not good.

 

* * *

 

 

Walter sat cross-legged on the floor staring out the window for a very long time. He tried to think of nothing, but he couldn't stop his mind from racing around from one idea to the next as it always did. Once, he might have called Megan when he couldn't make his brain stop, but that was no longer an option.

Suddenly, he stood up, making an immediate decision. His sister might not have a grave that he could visit, but the beach where they'd spent many an evening should work as a substitute. Walter had never understood the practice of visiting a loved-one's grave, but like he had learned recently, not understanding a custom didn't mean that you shouldn't participate.

Fortunately, the beach wasn't crowded because all the kids were at school and adults at work. The occasional jogger would pass by, but for the most part, Walter was blessedly alone, sitting in the sand.

He tried rolling up his sleeves, but eventually just took the shirt off, dropping it in he sand beside him. For a long time he stared down at the scars on his forearms. Briefly considering the knife that was still in his pocket, Walter resisted the impulse to reopen the healed cuts.

After a while, Walter put his shirt back on, leaving the front open and rolling the sleeves up to his elbows. It felt remarkably freeing not to worry about someone seeing and asking questions. He slid the knife from his pocket, turning it over in his hands and considering it many uses. Laying it down on his thigh, Walter ran his fingers over his ankle, pondering the possibilities.

He knew that a cut on his ankle or leg probably wouldn't kill him, but he didn't really care. Walter was mesmerized by sight of the blood, his blood, running into the sand and he couldn't help drawing another line, parallel to the first. Finally, his mind was clear.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think, if you have criticisms, suggestions, ideas, I'd love to hear them.


	5. When You Can't Help Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another trip to the hospital and fruit shopping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: discussion of self harm

Later that afternoon, Walter returned to the garage to find it empty. Sylvester was still out with his gaming friends, and the rest of the team was still away on the case that Walter wasn't allowed to know about. Having turned his phone off earlier, the genius missed two calls and several texts. Basically, Paige wanted him to pick up Ralph from school. Should be easy enough.

Texting back to confirm, Walter drove Paige's care towards the school. He arrived early, at least ten minutes before the kids were dismissed, leaving him to stand around with the various other parents and caretakers who were waiting for school to let out.

Walter leaned against the wall, alternately watching the doors and surveying the adults standing alone or in small groups. Some of them had younger children with them in strollers or toddling around, and all looked ridiculously carefree. He supposed that was the benefit of being an idiot; you got to be happy and unburdened by knowledge.

No one tried to talk to Walter until the kids were released and Ralph found Walter in the crowd, another child and his mother following. As it turned out, the other boy had invited Ralph over for the night and the young genius actually wanted to go. Though Walter couldn't help taking a second to be resentful about how lonely he'd been at that age in comparison, he quickly agreed, and they decided to meet at the other kid's house after the he and Ralph packed an overnight bag.

The packing took longer than it probably should have, and Ralph ended up bringing more supplies than he probably needed, but in less than two hours, Walter was dropping the kid off at the friend's doorstep. He could have gone in to chat as was expected of him, but the genius didn't feel like talking, and anyway, he'd done a thorough background check on the entire family while Ralph was deciding between a blue striped shirt and a green one with a dinosaur.

With Ralph taken care of, Walter found himself back at the beach. This time, instead of sitting in the sand, the genius climbed around on the rocks, almost hoping that a sinkhole would open up and swallow him. As it got darker, it was increasingly difficult for Walter to find sure footing. Several times, he slipped, re-opening the cuts from the morning and further injuring his legs on the rocks. Still, he didn't stop his aimless climbing.

Eventually, it was past sunset and Walter decided that he should probably return to the garage, just in case the team came back. Sylvester had probably gone straight back to his apartment, but Paige would likely come looking for him, given that he'd informed her of the sleepover situation. As he was making his way down the rocks, Walter slipped, hitting his head on a particularly sharp one.

Reaching up, he felt sticky blood pouring from his temple. “Well shit,” Walter muttered, prodding the wound before stopping when he realized that he could hear his own voice.

 

* * *

 

 

“Sir, are you okay?”

Walter opened his eyes, blinking in the light of early morning. “Where am I?” he asked himself, aloud.

The teen who'd shaken him awake took a step back. “Um, you're at the beach,” he informed the genius, pointedly not looking at Walter's uncovered wrists, “it seems like you slipped and hit your head on the rocks. Should I call 911?”

“No. I'm fine,” Walter pulled himself into a standing position, wobbling considerably; he'd probably lost some blood or so he figured.

“Do you want me to get you a ride home?” the teen asked, “Uber, Lyft, Sidecar, something like that? I'd take you, but I've got to get to school.”

“I've got a car.”

“You probably shouldn't be driving. I'll call OnCabs.”

As he was still wobbly and having trouble adjusting to the light, Walter had been put in a cab on the way to the hospital before he knew it. Though it took some effort, he managed to roll down his sleeves and button his shirt. He'd already pulled down his pant legs, but the rocks had reopened many of the cuts as well as creating new ones and the bloodstains were obvious.

After paying the driver what he hoped was enough, Walter stumbled towards the ER entrance that was next to the ambulance bay where he'd been dropped off. On the way in, he was noticed by a nurse and taken to be treated immediately due to his head wound. If he hadn't hit his head, he would have had to wait hours to be treated, but if he hadn't hit his head, he wouldn't have let himself be taken to the hospital in the first place.

 

* * *

 

 

Having undergone the standard neurological tests to determine that he was indeed fine, Walter's head was bandaged and he was bumped to the bottom of the waiting list, so to speak. They told him that someone would be coming by to clean and suture that lacerations on his legs, but 30 minutes had passed and he hadn't seen anyone.

Digging his phone out of his pocket, Walter saw that there was a missed call from Paige at 1:00 AM as well as several texts from her, one from Cabe, and a few from Ralph. Though it seemed that Walter's hearing had come back, he still used the voice-to-text program to view Paige's voicemail. In it, she informed him that the case had run long and asked him to continue taking care of Ralph. Her texts pretty much said the same thing, though one included an apology for calling him in the middle of the night when it wasn't an emergency.

Texting Paige back to confirm that he would make sure Ralph got to and from school, Walter moved on to read the text from Cabe. In the message, the DHS agent informed him that the case had run long and asked him to eat something and not get lost in his own head. Walter chuckled grimly, “too late,” he murmured.

Opening the texts from Ralph had Walter frantically checking the time and calling the friend's mother to make sure that everything was okay. As it turned out, Ralph had initially wanted to go home, but then the kids had started playing with a chemistry set of some kind, and he had changed his mind. Looking back at the text messages, and reading all the way through, Walter realized the Ralph had explained the situation exactly and he hadn't left the young genius to be miserable all night.

The mother confirmed that the kids had gotten to school safely, and she praised Ralph's intelligence. “He's a very smart boy,” she said, “have you considered enrolling him in a school for gifted children?”

“Paige wants him to have a normal childhood,” Walter told her, “he's also taking classes at a local university.”

“Of course, of course. But being in an environment with children his own age that are more like him might be good for Ralph. He doesn't seem to have many friends besides my son.”

“There are no kids like him,” Walter was about to tell her off when an intern entered, “I have to go.”

He didn't wait for her response before hanging up.

The intern introduced herself and began cleaning and suturing the cuts on Walter's legs. Most of them actually didn't need stitches, but a few of the ones he'd made purposefully did. When she was finished, the intern stood. “One moment,” she smiled at him, pulling the curtain closed behind her.

“Page Psych for a consult,” he heard her say to a nurse or someone.

Jumping out of the bed, Walter pushed the curtain aside. Suddenly losing most of the energy that got him out of the bed, his voice was barely audible when he spoke. “Could you page Dr. Winkowski instead of whoever is on call?”

The nurse sat down behind the desk, typing something into the computer as the intern ran off to answer another page. “You're in luck, Dr. Winkowski is in right now. Please sit back down, he'll be here in a few minutes.”

Walter did as he was told, pulling the curtain behind him and sitting down on the bed. He considered taking apart the monitoring equipment, but instead he settled for hacking the hospital's mainframe from his phone. It wasn't the easiest task he'd ever undertaken, hacking from a phone was a lot more difficult than it seemed.

He was finally getting somewhere when Dr. Winkowski interrupted. He heard the doctor enter and was saving his progress when the other man waved a hand in front of his face. Walter looked up, both seeing and hearing the doctor's greeting.

“How much of this was an accident,” Dr. Winkowski gestured in the general direction of the genius, “and how much was on purpose?”

Walter gently touched the bandage on his head, “this was an accident... the rest wasn't.”

“I see.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Walter wasn't looking at the doctor, but he'd heard the murmured response.

“Seems like you can hear again,” Dr. Winkowski changed the subject, “when did that happen?”

“Side effect of hitting my head on the rock,” Walter replied, “it's strange... all the noise.”

“There will be an adjustment period. These things take time.”

For a while they sat in silence. Eventually, the doctor figured out that Walter wasn't going to say anything and they wouldn't be getting anywhere. “I heard that you asked for me specifically,” he began, “why?”

“New people cause complications,” Walter stated.

“Fair enough. Tell me this, do you have someone at home who knows what's going on?”

The genius didn't answer the question. Instead, he asked his own. “How do I stop?”

Dr. Winkowski's eyebrows came together for a moment before he replied. “How do you stop what?” he asked.

“This,” Walter said emphatically, gesturing at his wrists and then his legs, “how do I stop?”

“Self harm is a complex issue,” the doctor began, “everyone's experience is different and before we can develop a strategy to help you stop, we need to examine what it is you get out of the practice.”

“I don't know!” Walter was almost shouting.

“Do you do it for the pain?”

“No... I don't think so... I don't know!”

“And that's okay,” Dr. Winkowski looked Walter straight in the eye, “it's okay to not know.”

“Are you the one who decides if I can leave?” the genius changed the subject.

“More or less,” the doctor replied, “you are free to leave once discharge paperwork has been completed, however if I judge that you are a danger to yourself or others, I can put you on a 24-hour psychiatric hold.”

“Are you going to do that?”

“No. At this moment, I don't think you are a threat to others or yourself. You seem to want to stop self-harming, so that's a good start.”

“Is this some 'the first step to solving a problem is admitting you have one' bullshit?” Walter scoffed.

“Yes,” Dr. Winkowski smiled, getting up from the stool he'd brought in with him, “I'll get that discharge paperwork started for you.”

 

* * *

 

 

That afternoon, Walter drove to pick Ralph up at school. He waited outside like he had the day before, trying his best to ignore the people who insisted on staring at the cut on his temple. After leaving the hospital, Walter had gone back to Paige's and changed, swapping his usual button down for a grey henley and replacing his bloodied cargo pants with worn jeans. He was careful, making sure that his shirt covered his wrists and his pants covered his ankles. He didn't need anyone prying or worse, telling Paige.

Ralph was quiet in the car, giving Walter one-word answers and staring out the window. “Is everything alright, buddy?” the older genius asked, cautiously.

“People are stupid.”

“Yes they are,” Walter agreed, “was anyone at school particularly idiotic today?”

Apparently he'd found the source of Ralph's annoyance because at that point the boy launched into a story about his teacher refusing to admit a mathematical error. Walter just nodded along, he'd lived that story.

Before going the garage, the two geniuses stopped at a grocery store. While Paige was usually the one to do the shopping, she wasn't around, and Walter imagined that Sylvester probably hadn't eaten in a while. The mathematician tended to forget food when he was busy.

As he and Ralph were wandering through the fruit section, Walter's phone rang. He debated ignoring it, but figured that it might be important.

Sylvester had gotten wrapped up in some mathematical proof and hadn't even noticed that his friends didn't come to the garage that morning. He'd read the text message from Paige saying that the case had run long, but he hadn't seen or heard from Walter since before the team had left.

Putting down the chock with which he was working, Sylvester scrolled through his contacts, arriving at Walter's name and pressing the call button. When the other genius answered, he breathed a sigh of relief; for some reason, he'd been imagining Walter lying alone in a hospital bed.

Their conversation was short, and Sylvester hung up after confirming that Walter and Ralph would be returning to the garage soon and that the fruit they were buying was organic and GMO-free. Just as he was picking up his chock to return to his calculations, Cabe, Happy, Toby, and Paige entered, looking absolutely exhausted.

 

* * *

 

 

Walter sat in bed, Paige sleeping peacefully beside him. There were many things that could have been keeping his genius brain awake, but all he could think about was the knife stowed away in the bottom drawer of the bedside table.

Slipping out of bed, he moved towards the kitchen, sitting down by the counter. Eventually he pulled out his phone and Dr. Winkowski's business card, staring at the latter for a long time before he dialed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think?  
> I'm especially curious about your opinions on how I'm writing Ralph and Sylvester.


	6. The First Time is the Hardest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walter has another conversation with Dr. Winkowski and Happy does some snooping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry it has taken me so long to update. I'm trying to be quick about it and just failing miserably because I have no inspiration.
> 
> BTW: The thing Walter says about people distancing themselves is a quote from the episode “Sharknado”
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not have a degree in psychology and I am in no way an authority on the subject of self-harm. I wrote this based off of my own experiences and some basic research.

“Mr. O'Brien.”

“Dr. Winkowski.”

“Please, have a seat,” the doctor gestured at the couch.

Frowning for a moment, Walter sat in one of the room's two armchairs. Dr. Winkowski took the other without comment. The doctor was silent for a moment, but eventually he spoke, sensing that Walter wouldn't be the one to start the conversation. “We're going to start with some basic information about your history,” he said, “do you have any history of mental health issues or psychiatric treatment?”

“No,” Walter thought for a second, “my parents got me checked out when I was a child. I'm not crazy, just smart.”

“You must be very smart for your intelligence to be mistaken as something else.”

“I have an IQ of 197,” the genius replied tiredly.

Dr. Winkowski nodded, writing something on his notepad. “That's impressive,” he commented, “let's continue. Do you have any history of experiencing physical, verbal, or emotional abuse?”

“No.”

“Drug or alcohol issues?”

“No.”

“Is there anything else you think I should know?”

“No.”

“Alright,” the doctor put down his notepad, clasping his hands, “what brings you here today?”

“I made an appointment,” Walter told him bluntly.

“And why did you do that?”

“You asked me to call you if I was considering hurting or killing myself again.”

“I did say that,” Dr. Winkowski nodded, “you didn't call me before ending up in the ER again, what changed?”

“I told you. I want to stop.”

“You want to stop self-harming,” the doctor clarified.

Walter didn't reply, so the other continued. “How about you tell me a little more about why you started hurting yourself to begin with.”

The office was silent safe for the humming of the air-conditioning unit and the faint buzz of LA traffic coming through the window. Dr. Winkowski tapped his pen on the notepad a few times before writing something down. “Are you going to answer?” the doctor asked eventually.

“The word 'answer' implies that you asked a question, when you in fact made a suggestion,” Walter countered.

“Fair point. If I phrased it as a question, would you be any more inclined to tell me?”

“No.”

“Alright then, let's move on. What were you thinking when you purposely injured yourself?”

“Which time?”

“Any of them. We can start with the first time if you'd like.”

“I wasn't thinking. That's the point.”

“To clarify,” Dr. Winkowski set down his pen, clasping his hands in his lap, “the first time you purposely injured yourself, the intent was to stop thinking?”

“Look, I get it alright,” Walter struggled to keep himself from yelling at the other man, “I'm abnormal, a freak. I know it's illogical. But you don't understand what it's like to have a brain like mine. I'm always thinking, I never stop thinking! If you knew what it was like, you'd get why I need a break sometimes!”

The doctor took a deep breath, taking up his pen to make a quick note before speaking. “I don't think that you are a freak, Walter, and you're right, I cannot understand what it is like to be in your head. However, injuring yourself in order to quiet your thoughts is not altogether uncommon. Many people describe it as a way of escaping reality or as a release from emotional burdens. Does that sound right to you?”

“Sort of, but not entirely,” Walter bit his lip, “what are the other reasons?”

“Every individual who self-harms has their own reason, but many do it to distract from emotional pain or as a means of punishing themselves. Some say that self-injury helps them feel less numb; that they don't know how else to make themselves feel.”

“That makes no sense. It's completely illogical.”

“To you, perhaps. But as you said, some things things are just not logical. Would you like a glass of water? Tea perhaps?”

Walter was a little startled by the abrupt change of topic, but he appreciated it. “Sure.”

Dr. Winkowski stood, taking two glasses off a shelf and walking over to a bubbler in the far corner. He filled them and handed one to Walter before returning to his seat. They drank their water in silence, and for several minutes afterwards neither spoke. “I'd like to go back to something you said earlier, if that's alright, however if you have anything particular that you want to discuss or would like to continue debating the logic of reasons for self-harming, please let me know.”

Walter nodded and after a few moments the doctor glanced down at his notepad and resumed speaking. “Earlier you called yourself a freak and said that you knew you were abnormal. How do you know that?”

“I might have no EQ, but I'm perfectly capable of picking up when someone is trying to distance themselves from me. It happened at school when kids could tell that I was different, I felt it with my parents...”

“You have difficulty connecting with people?”

“As if that isn't obvious.”

“Tell me about your relationship with your parents,” Dr. Winkowski redirected the conversation.

“What about it?”

“Are you close with them? How often do you see them?”

“They live in Ireland. I don't have the time or money to visit often. Since Megan... they haven't come here in a while...”

“Megan?”

“My sister. She died.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. What happened?”

“MS. We knew it was coming.”

“That doesn't always make it easier,” the doctor set down his notepad, “we're gonna have to end soon. Is there anything you feel needs to be said today specifically?”

Walter shrugged, standing up. The two shook hands and as the genius was about to leave, Dr. Winkowski handed him a business card. “There's a list of available dates and times on the back,” he explained, “when you pick one, call to schedule an appointment.”

Taking the card and shoving it into his pocket, Walter left the office. He wasn't sure if he would be calling to make another appointment, but he knew that he had to hide the card from Paige. As he got in his car and drove back to the garage, the genius occupied himself with trying to come up with believable excuses as to where he'd been.

 

* * *

 

Walter had been gone for nearly two hours and Happy was getting suspicious. He'd told them that he was going to a lecture, and they didn't have a case at the moment, but something didn't seem quite right. Paige was chaperoning Ralph's school field trip, Sylvester was out with his gaming friends, and Toby had taken a red pen to a stack of recently published psychology and psychiatry books intent on correcting them and sending them back to their authors, but Happy's latest motorcycle engine failed to distract her.

Thirty minutes into Walter's absence she looked up the lecture. It turned out to be nonexistent and for some reason she wasn't surprised. One hour into his absence and Happy found herself creeping up the stairs and standing in the center of the loft area for a long moment before she started opening drawers. She found a Swiss-army knife, several X-acto knifes and two unattached razor blades. When they were all safely locked in her desk, Happy returned to her engine.

The mechanic was about to call her friend, and then trace his phone if he didn't pick up, when she heard the garage door open and saw Walter enter. Without greeting him, Happy put down her phone, pulled on her gloves and went back to welding.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, I'm lacking in inspiration, so if y'all have ideas, requests, suggestions, etc. let me know in the comments.
> 
> Also tell me what you think of this chapter.


	7. Something Is Very Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toby, Happy, and Sylvester try to figure out what's going on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken me so long to update and that this chapter is pretty short. 
> 
> I'm not really sure how to write what needs to be written for the story to conclude which is why updates are taking forever.

“Walt?”

“Walter, are you up there? I can't find my keys!” Toby called up to the loft.

When he received no response, the behaviorist shrugged and began climbing the stairs. “Too bad you're not here,” he muttered, “because I'm about to through all your stuff.”

 _He's gonna be so pissed later,_ Toby chuckled to himself, _he hates it when people mess with his things... Not as much as Sly does though..._ He knew he wasn't doing the smartest thing in the world, but self-preservation had never been his strong suit and risk-taking was addictive for a reason. Also, he wasn't about to pass up the opportunity to do some investigating... as a professional psychologist of course... he wasn't snooping, really... Looking around the loft area, Toby wondered what would happen if he got caught. Curiosity may be what kills the cat, but does satisfaction really bring him back?

Toby was so startled that he almost fell backwards down the stairs when his eyes landed on Walter standing by the window. “Jeez O'Brien, you scared me! Why didn't you answer before?”

The other man didn't reply and Toby moved closer, trying to figure out why he was being ignored. Walter wasn't wearing headphones or earbuds or anything of the kind, and he wasn't reading or writing. What struck the behaviorist most was that while his friend could be thinking, Walter did do that a lot, he usually did it sitting down. “Hey 197, are you angry with me or something? I swear I didn't mean to screw up that last job... Okay, maybe I was pushing Cabe's buttons, but I didn't know that the friend he was introducing was some military hoity-toity.”

When Walter still didn't respond or make any indication that he was aware of his friend's presence, Toby forgot all about his keys, concern for the other taking center stage. Slowly, the behaviorist approached, all the while trying to gauge Walter's reaction. There was none.

Finally, Toby got a good look at Walter's expression. His eyes were glassy and unfocused and he was barely blinking, almost like there was “no one home.” The psychologist didn't want to touch his friend in case that set off a bad reaction, but clearly auditory cues weren't working.

Moving slowly into the other man's peripheral vision, Toby waved his hand a little, still not succeeding in getting Walter's attention. “Hey buddy,” he began gently, “why don't you come over to the couch with me.”

Though there was no verbal response, Walter did follow him over to the couch and sat down, his eyes remaining unfocused and his expression blank. It wasn't anything like the last time Toby had found his friend standing by the window and ignoring him; this time Walter didn't snap out of it when he saw the behaviorist. Suddenly, Toby had an idea. Leaving Walter where he was, the behaviorist went to Ferret Bueller's cage and lifted the creature out.

Placing a bit of the animal's food in Walter's hand which rested in his lap, Toby set the ferret on the table. Once he saw that Ferret Bueller had located the food, the psychologist went back downstairs to wait and hope that his idea panned out.

Sure enough, ten minutes later Walter called down from the loft. “Toby! Why are your keys in Ferret Bueller's hammock?”

 _Two birds_ , Toby thought to himself, _one ferret_.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, Toby and Happy sat in bed together, surprisingly neither of them in the mood for sex. The mechanic sighed, taking of her headphones. “I can practically hear you thinking.”

“Have you noticed anything weird about Walter lately?”

“He's always weird.”

“I mean different than his normal weirdness. Like staring off into the distance for long periods of time, not replying when he's spoken to.... that kind of stuff.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I don't know,” Toby slouched further into the pillows, rubbing his eyes, “maybe I'm imagining things.”

“I doubt it.”

The psychologist sat up, turning to his wife. “You know something.”

She didn't reply, opening the first book she found and attempting to look busy. “Happy,” Toby pulled the book from her hands, “what do you know?”

“It's Walter's business,” she replied, “I'm not gonna share stuff I'm not even supposed to know.”

“I think there's something wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“I went up to the loft to find my keys earlier and he was having a dissociative episode. Pretty far from the pathological end of the spectrum, but still concerning.”

“That's not connected to what I know,” Happy informed him.

“As the only trained psychiatrist in the room, I think I would be a better judge of what symptoms are connected.”

She frowned at him. “Isn't day dreaming a form of dissociation. We all do that.”

“It was different,” Toby fiddled with the corner of a pillowcase, “he couldn't hear what I was saying, even when I was almost shouting at him.”

“He's been having trouble hearing things for a while,” Happy responded calmly, sitting up a little and pushing her laptop to the side, “unless the voice-to-text program he's been using for a while is my imagination.”

“I didn't notice that,” the psychiatrist stared down at his hands guiltily, “but I don't think that's a problem anymore. I had a conversation with him later when he couldn't see my face and wasn't using his phone or computer. Anyway, even when he could see me, he didn't respond.”

“So?”

Toby took a deep breath. Happy had always been very to-the-point and picking up on emotional cues was not her strong suit. “It was scary, Hap,” he sighed, “Walt's eyes were glazed over... I though he was high for a second, but the other symptoms would have been different. It went beyond the look he gets when he's thinking or whatever.”

“What reason does he have to dissociate from reality?” the mechanic didn't mean to sound insensitive or dismissive, but it still came out that way.

“People dissociate for lots of different reasons. Usually it's a coping mechanism of some kind or other. Helps deal with pain or feelings of helplessness and fear. Many patients experience a drop in anxiety during dissociative episodes; it's a way of escaping the mental or physical distress of a thought or situation.”

“There's gotta be someone who's come up with a way of fixing it,” Happy replied, “right?”

“I mean, there's no way to 'fix' it per say, but there are ways of dealing. Grounding techniques and the like. A lot of them wouldn't work on Walter anyway...”

“So what did you end up doing?”

“I let the ferret deal with it. Animals can be really good for certain people, though it would probably be better if he had a dog.”

“Why?” Happy asked, then decided she didn't want an answer, “never mind it's probably something about feelings that I wouldn't get.”

“The total reasoning behind it hasn't really been figured out, but countless studies have been done and thoroughly proved that dogs can make a difference in a human's mental and physical well-being,” Toby shrugged, “I let Ferret Bueller out and put food for him on Walter to give him a gradual distraction.”

“I don't get it.”

“Well, it takes the little guy a while to eat, which gives Walter more time to slowly regain awareness of his surroundings. Also, 'the ferret is loose' is an easier and more immediate problem to deal with than whatever is going on in Walt's head.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Happy nodded.

The two of them sat in silence for several minutes, Toby staring off into the distance and thinking, while Happy did something on her computer. Eventually the mechanic looked up. “It says here that people sometimes lose chunks of time when they dissociate or whatever,” she turned to her husband, indicating her screen, “is that like being blackout drunk and memories usually come back eventually?”

“I suppose it's possible,” he frowned, “not common though. More often they just don't remember what happened during that period of time.”

“So they can go around and do stuff and then not remember doing it?”

“Yeah.”

“Do people ever do things when the dissociate that they wouldn't do normally?”

“It's possible. Not as much when dissociation is symptom or side effect. However there is always Dissociative Identity Disorder. That's a fun one.”

Happy frowned. “Multiple Personality Disorder?” she asked.

“Colloquially speaking I suppose,” Toby admitted, “not entirely accurate though.”

“We would have noticed if Walt had that right?”

“Yeah, it's pretty noticeable,” the psychiatrist confirmed.

Happy nodded thoughtfully. “So when he's dissociating or whatever, would he do stupid things that he wouldn't do otherwise?”

“You're being super vague. What are you getting at? What is it that you know?” Toby didn't bother masking the urgency in his voice.

“I'll ask him about it first,” Happy replied, “if he can't give me a good explanation, then I'll tell you.”

“Fine,” Toby relented, moving his book to the side table, “but for the record, I don't like this whole keeping secrets thing.”

That night Happy slept fitfully and Toby didn't sleep at all.

 

* * *

 

Several days passed before Happy was able to get Walter alone. First there was a case that kept them all busy, then she and Toby were watching Ralph while Walter took Paige out for dinner, and then Sylvester and Walter got caught up in a project together. When Happy finally did manage to corner him, it was only because Paige and Sylvester were both out with friends, Ralph was at school, Toby was a conference, and Cabe was having a not-so-secret romantic weekend with a lady-friend.

“Hey Walt,” Happy called up to the loft from her welding station, “are you up there?”

As expected, there was no response. It was entirely possible that Walter was working on something or ignoring her on purpose, but the mechanic still felt uneasy. Setting down her gloves, she climbed the steps to the loft slowly. Walter was there, passed out on the couch.

Deciding not to let the investigative opportunity go to waste, Toby was apparently rubbing off on her, Happy tiptoed around the loft, opening drawers and checking behind furniture. She didn't turn on the light because she didn't want to wake him, which made her task difficult but not impossible. Though she hadn't set out looking for anything specific, the mechanic had pocketed two knives before she turned her attention to the sleeping genius.

“Walter?” she poked him, no succeeding in waking him up.

Carefully, Happy took one of his arms and rolled up the sleeve. Closer inspection revealed only two randomly placed white lines that could have always been there or could have been new; seeing details with just the fading light from outside was difficult. Walter's other arm was free of obvious scars except for the round one she'd given him with a soldering iron a few months after they first met. Without waking him, she managed to replace his sleeves and reposition his arms as she'd found them.

Before she could head back downstairs, Happy had an urge to check one more place. Rolling up Walter's pant legs proved difficult but she managed to do it. She did not, however, manage to hold in her gasp when she found a mess of still-healing cuts on his shins. Not knowing what to do, Happy backed away, heading downstairs and returning to her workstation. “Not good,” she muttered to herself.

She didn't ask Walter and she didn't tell Toby.

 

* * *

 

Sylvester knew something was wrong with Walter. He'd known the other genius for long enough to tell the difference between what was normal behavior and what wasn't, even if most of Walter's usual behavior couldn't really be classified as normal.

Lately Sylvester had noticed his friend not speaking up in situations where he would normally have a lot to say. He'd also noticed that Walter spent more time lost in his own head, but refused to tell anyone what he was thinking about. What bothered the mathematician most was that his friend didn't seem to get excited over anything anymore. Once, a single comment could get Walter talking for hours, but these days, attempts to engage him in intellectual conversation were met with “oh, that neat,” and nothing more.

Sylvester didn't have enough information to panic, but he knew there was something not quite right. He found the “not-knowing” considerably more distressing than any of his known phobias and also far more difficult to explain. Toby was the local psychology expert, but the mathematician wasn't sure how to approach the other with his concern. Anyway, the psychiatrist would probably just tell him it was paranoia which was a solid possibility.

One day, the mathematician decided to approach his friend about the issue. Confrontation was by far Sylvester's least favorite way to deal with problems, but avoidance wasn't working. After they'd successfully completed a job, the mathematician figured that Walter would be in a decent mood, so he chose that moment to utilize every bit of confidence he had in him. “Uh Walter, could we talk? In private?”

“Sure buddy.”

When they arrived at his desk, Sylvester sanitized his hands, reorganized his pencils, straightened a stack of papers, and sanitized his hands again. He was about to start disinfecting his keyboard when Walter interrupted. “Is something wrong, Sly? You seem pretty anxious.”

“See, that's what I wanted to ask,” the mathematician fiddled with the cap of the disinfectant bottle, “is something wrong?”

“I'm not sure what you mean,” Walter replied, sitting down, “there were a few hiccups, but the job went well? Did you realize an error in your calculations or something?”

“Please,” Sylvester would have laughed if he weren't so anxious, “I don't make mistakes with my calculations.”

“Then what is it?”

“You?”

“Me... Did I do something particular that's upsetting you?”

Sylvester could tell that Walter had started reading personnel management books again. “No. It's just that you're different.”

“I've always been different. We're all different.”

“No,” the mathematician sighed, continuing to fiddle with the bottle cap, “you've been acting strangely for the last few months.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Walter replied decisively.

As neither of the geniuses were particularly good at articulating their feelings, that was the end of the conversation and Sylvester's “not-knowing” feeling persisted.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think.


	8. That's Confidential

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Toby and Cabe independently connect some dots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while, sorry about that. Here's an update

Though there were jobs that really tested Scorpion as a team and as individuals, they still took the relatively normal jobs. Most recently was upgrading the security system of a hospital and introducing new software for the emergency room and triage purposes. Cabe wasn't involved in this particular job, Sylvester and Happy's skills weren't needed, so the team was cut down to just Toby, Walter, and Paige. Technically, Toby didn't need to be there, but somehow he convinced them that having an MD on the team would make the doctors take them more seriously. In reality, the psychologist wanted to keep an eye on Walter.

Walter himself would have liked to do the job alone, but he recognized that Paige's presence would be valuable in communicating with the hospital's administrative and medical staff. Still, he wasn't happy about going to the hospital where Dr. Winkowski worked and the genius was somewhat recognizable to the ER staff, with other members of Scorpion. All he could do was hope that they didn't find out anything, but hope was not logical, so the genius settled for coming up with an actionable plan.

After a fair amount of thinking, maybe five minutes, Walter arrived at the conclusion that he simply had to get the job done as quickly as possible and get out of hospital with Toby and Paige before the wrong person recognized him.

Unfortunately, Walter's plan was foiled immediately upon arriving at the hospital's administrative offices. Dr. Winkowski exited the hospital chairwoman's office just as the three members of Scorpion were about to knock on the door of that very office. “Mr. O'Brien,” the psychiatrist greeted, extending a hand.

“Dr. Winkowski,” Walter replied, shaking the man's hand stiffly.

“Okay, hold up, how do you two know each other?” Toby cut in, turning to his friend, “I wasn't aware you had other psychiatrist friends. I'm offended.”

Dr. Winkowski chuckled, extending a hand to Toby with a warm smile. “I don't believe we've met. Paul Winkowski.”

“Tobias Curtis.”

“And I'm Paige Dineen,” Paige smiled uncomfortably, “how did you meet Walter?”

The doctor looked to the aforementioned genius, allowing him to offer an explanation. “A while back I hit my head and was in the ER here,” he chose details carefully, “the nurses thought I was crazy and insisted that I be examined by a psychiatrist. Obviously I'm fine.”

Dr. Winkowski kept his expression blank, which annoyed Toby and the younger psychiatrist was about to continue speaking when the hospital's chairwoman exited her office. “You three must be from Scorpion,” she effectively prevented any further conversation on the topic and allowed her employee an opening to return to his duties, “please come in.”

 

* * *

 

Such was Walter's determination to get in and out as fast as possible, that neither Toby nor Paige got the chance to ask any questions until they were in the car driving back to the garage. “When did you hit your head?” Paige asked worriedly, “why did you tell me if it was bad enough that you had to go to the ER?”

“It was a long time ago,” Walter assured her.

Toby bit his tongue for the remainder of drive as the couple bickered a little and discussed the job and their dinner plans. Both as a behaviorist and a friend, he knew that Walter was lying, but he also knew that exposing the genius in front of his girlfriend would not aid in getting the man to open up about whatever the truth really was. For that reason, Toby waited until they were back at the garage and he could get Walter alone, to broach the subject.

 

* * *

 

“197, we need to talk,” the psychiatrist announced, aware of but unbothered by the cliché phrasing.

“Oh,” Walter turned to face his friend, “what's up?”

“More of a private kind of thing,” Toby nodded at the loft.

Apparently the other genius was in a good mood or just very tired, because he didn't argue or try to get any more details before heading up the stairs. When they were both seated, Toby in an armchair and Walter on the couch, the psychiatrist realized that he had no idea how to convince his friend to open up. “Dr. Winkowski, he began.”

“What about him?” Walter stood and crossed the room, picking up Ferret Bueller.

“You lied to Paige about how you met him. If he'd only evaluated you once to sign off on your release from the ER, a long time ago at that, he wouldn't have remembered your name.”

“Maybe he's just got a really good memory. Of all people, we should be the last to discount mental capability.”

Toby sighed. “Seriously Walt. At a hospital that size, thousands of psych evaluations are done every year. And Dr. Winkowski is in charge of their Psych Department, doing ER consults is way below his pay grade unless it was a truly unique case,” the psychiatrist paused, but continued before his friend could say anything, “even if he wasn't the department head yet when you were seen, getting into that kind of position takes a really long time; ER evaluation has been below his pay grade since before you moved to L.A.”

“Do you have a point Toby?” Walter came to sit on the couch, setting Ferret Bueller in his lap.

“My point is, your story might be good enough to convince Paige, but this is me we're talking about, I had it deconstructed the moment I heard it. Tell me the truth. Please.”

“Maybe it wasn't that long ago,” the genius admitted.

“A year... a few months...” Toby watched Walter's reactions carefully, “a few months it is. Okay then. But you two are more familiar than would result from a simple evaluation, which I will remind you, is way below his pay grade... I can't believe I forgot!”

“What?”

“A few months ago. You were admitted to that hospital and refused all visitors. That must have been when you met Dr. Winkowski... I see that it was... Now on two why...”

“Stop it, Toby,” Walter spoke stiffly, walking the figurative line between panicked and angry.

Either the psychiatrist didn't hear him or didn't care because he continued. “I remember that because it was before the wedding and I... never mind. Only Cabe got to see you and he came back looking about ten years older. That means either you told him something or it was visually obvious.... Knowing you, it's the latter,” Toby frowned, muttering half to himself and half to his friend, “Cabe refused to tell us what was going on, but you were there overnight... they wouldn't have gotten a psych consult for simple hearing loss... technically Conversion Disorder does fall under the psych domain though...”

“How did you know about the hearing?” Walter was surprised to say the least.

“I would never reveal my sources,” the psychiatrist tried to lighten up his tone as his thoughts took a dive in the other direction.

“Happy then,” the genius concluded, “she noticed the voice-to-text program.”

“Anyway,” Toby continued, “you're hearing is fine now, and I'll return to my point that you and Dr. Winkowski are more familiar than a single interaction would entail. There's also the matter of whatever freaked Cabe out... something visually obvious.”

Before Walter could stop him, the psychiatrist has managed to push up his sleeves, dislodging Ferret Bueller in the process. The room was well lit enough the Toby couldn't miss the scars beginning at his friend's wrists and extending almost into the cleft of his elbows, especially because that was exactly what he was looking for. For several minutes, both geniuses were silent.

“Why?” Toby asked eventually, all pretense of psychiatric professionalism gone from his voice.

Walter didn't reply, instead choosing to pull down his sleeves and pet the ferret that had climbed back on top of him. The psychiatrist took a deep breath to calm himself. “Have you been seeing him regularly?” he asked stiffly.

“That's none of your business, Toby.”

“I suppose not... but Walt...”

“Are we done here?”

“If that's what you want,” Toby sighed, standing, “I'd tell you that I'm here if you ever need anything, but apparently that doesn't matter.”

With those parting words, the psychiatrist headed down the stairs. He spent the next several hours sitting at his desk and staring at the wall until Happy came to find him.

 

* * *

 

“You've been awfully quiet today, Doc,” Happy commented as they drove home.

“Mmmn,” Toby hummed, continuing to stare out the window.

“I may have low EQ, but I'm not an idiot. Also, you're my husband. Something's up.”

“You could say that.”

“It's about Walt, isn't it?” her hands gripped the wheel a little more tightly, “did you find out something?”

The psychiatrist shrugged which his wife managed to catch in her peripheral vision. “You talked with him, right? That's where you were when you three came back from the job?”

“Yeah.”

“Did something happen at the hospital?” Happy asked, wondering if her husband had managed to get a glimpse at their friend's medical records.

“We met... an acquaintance of his,” Toby chewed on his lip, “one Dr. Paul Winkowski.”

“Okay.”

“You knew about that?” the psychiatrist turned away from the window to look at the mechanic in the driver's seat.

“The name's familiar.”

“Hap... you know more than you're telling me.”

“You do too,” she retorted.

“Doctor-patient confidentiality,” Toby defended himself, “that would be unethical.”

“You aren't his doctor.”

“No...” he turned back to the window, “apparently the idiot doesn't trust me enough to even tell me if something's wrong.”

“He doesn't trust anyone that much,” Happy offered.

“Well that makes me feel _all_ better,” Toby muttered sarcastically.

“Winkowski's qualified,” she told him after a pause, “I checked him out.”

“Married less than a year and you're already looking at other men,” the psychiatrist joked weakly, “what did you find out?”

“Stanford undergrad, MD from Johns Hopkins. PhD in Clinical Psychology from UC Berkley.”

“Alright, but education isn't everything.”

“He worked with Hans-Werner Gessmann for several years before spending several years doing his own research and then accepting his current position.”

“Fine,” Toby admitted, “he's qualified. But that doesn't mean I like him.”

Happy just shrugged.

“I still don't get what Walter sees in the man,” the psychiatrist added, knowing very well that he was being petty.

“They're not in a relationship. He's dating Paige.”

“But you have to you have to have some kind of compatibility with your therapist in order for it to be a functional relationship,” Toby protested, “and it can't be drug therapy because Walt wouldn't go for that.”

“He's seeing Winkowski regularly?” Happy asked, her fingers finally relaxing their grip on the steering wheel.

“I don't know. I doubt it, but they're definitely more familiar than a single meeting would entail.”

“So he's getting help. That's a good thing, right?”

“I suppose...” the psychiatrist shrugged.

The two spent the rest of the drive in silence.

 

* * *

 

“Son, it's time we talked.”

Walter didn't bother replying and simply followed Cabe out the door, climbing into the passenger seat of the agent's car when the older man gestured to it. It seemed like everyone wanted to “talk” with him these days, and he was still in a bad mood from his “talk” with Toby a couple days earlier.

“I know the doc already tried talking to you,” Cabe began, “no, he didn't tell me, but it's pretty obvious from how you two have been interacting lately. I imagine Paige has tried to talk to you as well.”

“Of course she talks to me,” Walter avoided the agent's implications, “we're dating.”

“That's not what I mean, son, and you know that. You might have been successful at convincing Sly and the kid, maybe even Paige, but you're not fooling me.”

“What exactly is the point of this conversation?”

“Something's going on with you and it ain't good. Happy knows it, Toby knows it, and I know it.”

Walter continued to look out the window, not responding the the agent. “Look son, when I saw you in that bed, your arms all wrapped up... that really scared me,” Cabe admitted, “I've made my peace with you risking your life for jobs, at least to a degree, but I didn't know you were a danger to yourself.”

“I'm not.”

“Your medical record suggests otherwise. I got a glimpse at the paramedics report; you knew what you were doing and very nearly bled out,” the agent continued driving, staring straight ahead and breaking at least a couple traffic laws per minute, “you tried to kill yourself Walter, and you very nearly succeeded.”

The car was absolutely silent for the next ten minutes. When they arrived at Cabe's chosen eatery, the two men got out of the car, entered the establishment, and ordered food, all without speaking a word to each other. Eventually, as they were waiting for the food to come, Walter spoke up.

“I didn't what.”

“You didn't what?”

“I didn't kill myself. I'm still alive.”

Cabe took a deep breath, trying to push down his frustration. “You're alive,” he agreed, “but had that ex of yours been a few minutes later than she was, you wouldn't be.”

“Why are you so focused on this? It didn't happen. I'm here. I'm fine.”

“You're not fine, son. We both know that. That was your second attempt and I don't know how to prevent a third.”

“What do you mean second?” Walter asked, quieting as an employee brought their meals over.

“You know how to drive, Walter,” Cabe informed him, “you won't admit it to yourself, but driving off a cliff? That wasn't an accident. At least not completely. I think the doc knows that too.”

“Of course it was an accident. There was some sort of animal that I swerved to avoid-”

“Fine,” the agent interrupted, “but how can I make sure that you don't try again? How do I keep you from succeeding in that particular endeavor?”

Walter didn't reply, instead focusing on the food in front of him. Cabe did the same for a while, but the conversation wasn't over. “I get not wanting to talk about this with Toby. He means well, but he can be a bit... my point is that you need to get professional help. This isn't something I can fix, son, and this isn't something that's just gonna go away.”

“At what point did I ask you to fix anything?” the genius replied, “I'm dealing, so leave it alone.”

“You're seeing someone?” Cabe asked hopefully.

“That's none of your business!”

“I'm making it my business. I care about you, so deal with it!”

“Fine. You care. What problem does that solve?”

“Not everything is problem-solution,-problem-solution, son. You're not alone in this, alright? I'm here for you, and the rest of the team would be too if you let them.”

The two men finished their meal in silence.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't want to leave this unfinished, but I have zero inspiration. I'm gonna try to wrap up in the next few chapters, but i don't know how long that's gonna take because I don't have any ideas.
> 
> Let me know what you think of the chapter/fic


	9. The Myth of a Happy Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief conversation with Happy, an argument with Paige, and some realizations with Dr. Winkowski.

“No matter how long you stare at it, the water's not gonna boil itself.”

Walter started, nearly spilling the contents of the uncovered pot he was holding. Setting it down on the stove, he turned around to face Happy. “Sorry, I didn't catch that.”

“What do you need boiled water for anyway?” Happy asked instead of repeating herself.

When he didn't reply, she changed her tactic. “Toby is out with an old friend from Harvard, Ralph is at school, Paige is at her yearly physical, Sylvester is with his gaming people, and Cabe is doing paperwork at DHS Los Angeles headquarters. It's just you and me here.”

“What is the purpose of telling me this? We don't have a job right now.”

“My point is that no one is gonna overhear anything. Now sit.”

The geniuses both sat down at the kitchen table. Walter opened his mouth to ask more questions, but Happy spoke before he could. “Over the last two weeks I've removed fifteen blades of various kinds from the loft,” she announced, “more keep showing up.”

“Is that where all the knives have been going?” he gestured to the distinctly empty knife block on the kitchen counter.

“Well clearly you can't be trusted to handle them appropriately,” Happy kept her expression blank, “are you going to cop to it or do I have to spell everything out?”

“What exactly do you want me to admit?”

“I know you've been cutting, Walt. I've seen the scars. I've cleaned up the blood.”

“If you left it, I would have cleaned it up myself.”

“That's not my point,” Happy allowed some amount of emotion into her voice, “you need help.”

Walter didn't say anything for a moment. “I'm getting help, okay? Is that enough?”

“For now,” the mechanic stood to grab a bottle of scotch from behind the false back of a cabinet.

 

* * *

 

“Walter?”

“Paige?”

“Can we talk?” Paige sat on the bed, setting her earrings on the night table.

“We're talking right now.”

“That's not what I meant,” she sighed, “I feel like something is going on with you and everyone knows what it is except me. I'm worried.”

“There's nothing to worry about. I'm fine. Everything is okay.”

“It's not. I know I'm not as smart as the rest of you, but people are my thing,” Paige frowned, “I know there's something you aren't telling me. And what makes it worse is that Happy, Toby, and Cabe seem to already know.”

“Paige,” Walter began, not sure what to say.

Thankfully, his girlfriend wasn't done talking, so he didn't have to come up with something immediately. “We're supposed to be in this together, Walter. We're supposed to be partners. That doesn't work if you don't tell me things.”

“There's nothing to say,” the genius shrugged, “I don't know what you're expecting.”

“Please talk to me, keeping it all in isn't good for you.”

“What do you want me to talk about?” Walter asked, frustrated, “what I'm thinking? I doubt you really want to hear all that stuff.”

“I want you to talk about your feelings!” Paige exclaimed, “how is that so hard to understand?”

“You want me to tell you, but you won't like what you hear.”

“That's for me to decide! Don't pretend to know how I'm going to react!”

“I'm not pretending to know. Based on your previous reactions, the calculation is fairly simple to figure out the probability of an adverse response this time,” Walter told her calmly, “mathematically speaking, it's not worth the risk.”

“A relationship isn't about math and probability, Walter. It's about honesty and intimacy and love,” Paige had long ago crossed the line between concerned and angry, “you can't expect to have a healthy relationship with all these secrets you apparently keep.”

“I'm not keeping secrets. I'm just not telling you every single thing that I think and feel,” the genius defended himself, becoming angry in his own right, “there isn't enough time in the day for that. And anyway, you don't tell me how you feel either. You just expect me to figure it out from social cues that you know very well I can't pick up on.”

“Fine then. You need me to spell it out for you, then I will. Right now, I'm feeling concerned, frustrated, and honestly, a little attacked. Does that clear things up?”

“To a degree,” Walter nodded, “addressing each emotion in order, there is no reason to be concerned, I apologize for frustrating you, and while 'attacked' is not an emotion, I am sorry you feel that way.”

Though the side note about her word choice annoyed her, Paige calmed down a bit, realizing that her boyfriend truly was trying his best. “I shouldn't have yelled at you,” she admitted, “I apologize for doing that.”

He nodded again and she continued. “That said, the lack of logical explanation for my concern does not in any way lessen the feeling. Based on my observations, in the last several months you have been more closed off and less energetic. I am worried about that, and as a friend, colleague, and romantic partner, I want to be there for you. I can't do that unless you tell me what's going on.”

Walter frowned, considering her words. “Okay...” he said slowly in an attempt to elongate the pause in conversation so as to give himself time to process.

“I used your language and everything. I'm trying to meet you in the middle.”

“Yes I understand that,” the genius held up a hand, “I would appreciate the chance to compose an appropriate response. I am trying to meet you in the middle as well.”

 

* * *

 

“Mr. O'Brien. Welcome back.”

“Dr. Winkowski,” Walter took the same seat he'd chose last time.

“How are you?” the doctor sat down as well.

“That's a very general question. You're going to have to be more specific if you want a certain answer.”

“I'm not looking for any answer specifically. Don't think about it too much.”

“Fine. But I don't like that question.”

“Noted,” Dr. Winkowski smiled, “so how are you?”

“I'm fine I guess. It is what it is.”

The doctor nodded, waiting patiently for the genius to expand on his answer. “The others found out,” Walter said after a full minute of silence.

“What did they find out?”

“This thing... you know...” the patient frowned in frustration when Dr. Winkowski didn't finish the sentence or offer suggestions, “that something is wrong with me.”

“How did it go?”

“I think it went well. I convinced Sylvester, but Toby and Cabe are more perceptive. Paige... she seemed pretty convinced too. Happy knows something, but she hasn't approached me about it.”

“Convinced of what?” the doctor asked, his voice remaining calm and his expression neutral.

“That everything's normal. That I'm fine.”

Dr. Winkowski made a note on his pad, but didn't ask any further questions.

This time, Walter caught on more quickly and it only took twenty seconds before he spoke. “It was after the job at this hospital where you met Toby and Paige, Toby confronted me about being more familiar with you than I let on.”

“I did my utmost to protect you privacy,” the doctor began, but his patient interrupted.

“I know that. Toby is very perceptive, that's not your fault,” the genius sighed, “he deconstructed everything I said until I admitted to the incident when we first met. Happy noticed the hearing loss first and she told him about it, I guess. Anyway, Toby pressed further and eventually he jumped on me and found the scars.”

“All of them?”

“No, just these ones,” Walter indicated his forearms without raising his sleeves, “I got him to back off, but that was it. I'm sure he told Happy everything.”

“Why Happy specifically?” Dr. Winkowski wrote something down before looking up at his patient expectantly.

“They're married.”

“I see,” the doctor made note of the fact, “would you say that Happy is the type of person to send anonymous threats?”

Slightly thrown by the question, Walter took a moment to reply. “Not really her style. She prefers head-on confrontation. Getting in someone's face and breaking a few fingers sounds more likely, but the person would have had to really pissed her off. Why?”

In lieu of replying, the doctor pulled out his phone and navigated to his professional email. He turned the phone around so Walter could see the screen. “Would this be her?”

“If you fuck with him, I will fill your salt shaker with powdered castor beans,” Walter read aloud, “yes, that sounds like her. Though usually her threats aren't quite so lethal and she would say it to the person's face.”

“Fascinating,” Dr. Winkowski put away his phone, “shall we continue?”

“Sure,” the genius readjusted himself in his seat, “what were we talking about?”

“The conversations you had recently with your friends.”

“Right... Cabe knows the most; he's seen parts of my medical record. I think he knows I've been coming to see a doctor,” Walter tried to remember the specifics of the tense conversation he'd had with the agent, “I was in a car accident a while back... Cabe thinks it was an attempt to kill myself.”

“Was it?”

“No. At least not consciously,” the genius admitted, “I didn't have a goal or anything, but I knew that I was being reckless.”

Dr. Winkowski stood to get himself a glass of water, offering Walter one as well. The patient declined and continued speaking. “Am I supposed to talk about Paige now?”

“If you want to, you can talk about Paige,” the doctor took a sip from his cup and set it on the table, “if you'd like to discuss something else, that's fine.”

“She got angry with me last night because I wouldn't tell her what she wanted to hear.”

“What was that?”

“I'm not sure exactly,” Walter looked down at his hands briefly, “she said that there was something wrong with me and I should tell her about it.”

“Do you know what she meant?”

“Yes. She's worried; that was made perfectly obvious. I said that I'm fine and she shouldn't worry and then she got mad at me for not telling her about every single thing I think and feel.”

Dr. Winkowski made noises of acknowledgment, but didn't say anything, leaving the conversation open for his patient to continue. “It's like I can't do anything right. First she tells me that I should consider how someone is going to react before deciding whether to speak my mind, and then she says that it isn't right for me to not tell her how I think and feel even if there is a high likelihood of an averse reaction,” Walter took a deep breath, knowing that yelling would not be conducive to further productive communication, “if she's going to give me rules about social interaction, shouldn't she also provide a list of exceptions? Am I being totally ridiculous?”

“Not at all,” the doctor replied calmly, “your reaction is entirely justified. Have you told Paige all of this?”

“I tried to. It didn't really work, but we made up and the conversation ended.”

There was several minutes of heavy silence before Walter turned back to Dr. Winkowski. “You're normal,” he began, “you're not a genius like me, but you have degrees, experience, and an IQ far beyond Paige's. What do you think I'm doing wrong and how should I fix it?”

“I'm going to address several parts of what you just said, but stop me at any point if needed,” the doctor took another sip from his glass before continuing, “first of all, you used the word 'normal.' What do you mean by that? What makes a person normal?”

“Usually, below genius level IQ. There's some cut off point where IQ gets high enough that EQ goes wrong, either too high or too low. Normal people are ones who can fit in, be part of society, function the way you're supposed to.”

“And what makes you think that someone is 'supposed' to function or behave in a particular manner?”

Walter actually had to think for a few seconds before responding. “Paige says that humans are social creatures and the structure of rules and customs and the like that we call society is normal. Hence, anyone that cannot fit into said structure is abnormal.”

“That's what Paige says, but what do you think?”

After a full minute of uncomfortable silence, Dr. Winkowski chose to move on rather than wait for an answer. “You asked me what I think about, and I'll use your words here, 'what you are doing wrong.' While I don't believe that anyone's opinion should be more influential on your behavior than your own, I personally, think you aren't doing anything wrong.”

Walter had the words, “but Paige said,” on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them and gestured for the doctor to continue speaking. “The line between what is and is not 'wrong' in terms of the social and emotional, is arbitrary and fluctuates based on culture and circumstance. Not conforming to the social niceties currently favored by Californians isn't necessarily wrong.”

The genius frowned. “Logically speaking, any input that doesn't illicit the desired output, is the wrong input.”

“But who determines the desired output?”

“It's not subjective.”

“Why not?”

There was another brief pause. “Just tell me what to do about Paige. Is she right?”

“That's not up to me,” Dr. Winkowski replied evenly, “do you feel like you and Paige are equals?”

“No,” Walter said immediately, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “I'm obviously far more intelligent than she is. But she has the people skills.”

“Ultimately, what does that mean to you?”

“That question is very unclear.”

“Well, what are you really asking me?” the doctor set his pad and pen down on the table, “what is the question you want answered?”

“I just want to know if I'm in the wrong,” the genius huffed in frustration, looking down at his hands, “am I being unreasonable in asking for consistency? Is it right for me to be questioning when she tells me how a relationship is supposed to be? Am I reacting the wrong way?”

“Do you agree with her?”

“Well Paige is the one who knows what she's doing. She's the expert on emotion and relationship and stuff.”

“Okay,” Dr. Winkowski nodded patiently, “but how what's your opinion, expert or not?”

“Does it matter?” Walter asked, continuing when the doctor didn't reply, “when it comes to this kind of thing, I'm usually wrong.”

“Let's try something,” the doctor waited for his patient's non verbal assent before introducing the exercise, “how do you feel about Paige? Now take those feelings and put them to the side. What's your assessment of your interactions with her? Now put that aside and tell me how these interactions make you feel.”

Five minutes passed before Walter looked up from his hands. “I don't like how she treats me,” he admitted, “but I don't want to lose her and I don't know how to handle that.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm guessing that some of ya'll probably don't like the ending. I asked a friend how to end it, but he suggested having Walter jump off a cliff in the last line, so I stuck with this.


End file.
